


The Stranger at the Door

by DroughtofApathy



Category: Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 - Malloy, Voyná i mir | War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy
Genre: (past) Minor Violence, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, F/F, Gentle Sex, Hurt/Comfort, Marya doesn't have godchildren, Minor Angst, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pierre isn't Helene's husband in this, Soft!Helene, Vulnerable!Marya, bed sharing, it's so gay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-22
Updated: 2018-03-22
Packaged: 2019-04-06 13:08:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14057625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DroughtofApathy/pseuds/DroughtofApathy
Summary: Marya couldn’t. She just couldn’t. It would ruin her for good. And she’d spent years clawing her way back into a semi-respectable place in society. Even if that place was tenuous at best. This, feeling… this deficiency. This would ruin her, and Hélène alike. Marya couldn’t. She just couldn’t. And so, she did what she had done with many of her emotions over the years. She shunted them aside. But it was easier said than done.





	The Stranger at the Door

It was just past two in the morning when Marya Dmitryevna startled awake. The banging on her front door, harsh and discordant in the otherwise silent night, bewildered her more than anything. Quickly wrapping herself in a burgundy house shawl, she started for the door. Flinging it open, angry and stinging insults were on the tip of her tongue when she saw her. Sprawled across her front step was a woman.

“Please,” the woman rasped, reaching out a trembling hand. She was shivering violently in the frigid Russian air, and her lips appeared blue in the dim lighting. Marya, loathe to admit strange beggars into her home, couldn’t help but hesitate. That was when she saw it; the blood. Crouching down carefully, Marya grasped the woman’s chin as gently as she could. Bruises colored her jawline, and continued down her neck disappearing beneath a high-quality, but ripped neckline.

The woman hissed in pain, clutching at her abdomen. Even in the darkness, Marya could see this was the source of the blood. Quickly deciding this woman was of no threat to her, Marya moved to help the woman stand. But she hardly made it up the steps before collapsing to her knees with a sharp cry.

Hushing her as gently as Marya had ever been, she cautiously braced herself, before lifting the woman as carefully as she could. It was easier than she anticipated. Even with the stranger’s heavy skirts, she weighed hardly anything at all.

Knowing the drawing room was freezing without a fire at this time of year, she brought the girl into her own chambers. Ruined sheets were the least of her concern as Marya carefully laid the shivering woman down.

Murmuring empty words of comfort, Marya rushed to retrieve a basin of water, and several clean cloths. Despite the imminent danger to a strange woman’s health and safety, Marya couldn’t help but feel as though this was the most interesting thing to have happened to her in a long while.

Marya Dmitryevna Akhrosimova had been twenty years old when she was married off to a wealthy member of the Russian aristocracy. She’d been twenty-five when she became a widow. Her husband, having gambled away most of his wealth, left his wife with little to her name. Though young enough to have been desirable to another suitor, the scandal of her lost fortune coupled with her utter dissolution with men, Marya had never remarried. Instead, she made her own name.

Of course, Marya wasn’t foolish enough to believe the people of Moscow truly respected her in her own right. Instead she was someone of entertainment. A woman of sharp wit, and even sharper criticisms, Marya Dmitryevna was a woman who people feared, yes. But that did not stop them from tittering behind their stark white gloves when she left in a whirlwind of rich burgundy. Now, at thirty-five, Marya had made back some of her lost fortune, but not nearly enough to live in the splendor her late-husband had promised her father.

But now, carefully tearing the woman’s dress in order to assess the damage, Marya couldn’t help but feel that was all so terribly trivial. Even with her thick skin, and inability to be phased by anything, Marya still paused in shock at how dark the bruises along the woman’s collarbone were against her dusky skin. But that wasn’t the most pressing issue. No, not when the woman’s corset was stained with blood.

“Are you able to sit up?” Marya asked, tentatively. The woman nodded, but struggled upright with several pained gasps. With one arm supporting the trembling woman, Marya made quick work of the laces. After all these years with no servants to attend to her, she had become rather adept at the intricacies of corset stays.

As Marya peeled away the ruined corset, the woman cried out in pain. The blood, having adhered the fabric to her wound, tore away from her wounded flesh and quickly started up again. As gently as she could, Marya cleaned what appeared to be a knife wound. It didn’t appear to be deep, and the blood wasn’t gushing out. Really, it was more of a slice than a stab.

As her eyes roamed over the other woman’s torso for any other injuries, Marya was struck by just how simultaneously strong and fragile she appeared. Even lying down, Marya estimated her to be about half a head shorter than her own taller frame. And though she wasn’t rail thin by any means, she had a sort of delicate look about her. Though, admittedly, the many injuries may have helped that image along.

Despite cleaning the wound as best as she could, Marya thought it best to run for a doctor once she was sure the woman wasn’t going to die on the spot in her bed, no less. After reassuring her that she would only be gone for a moment, Marya quickly dressed and hurried out the door.

Marya didn’t own a carriage, and she knew no troikas would be stopping at this hour. They were most likely all full of the men at the clubs. If anyone had been watching that night, they would have been treated to quite the sight; Marya Dmitryevna rushing through the streets, hastily dressed with her hair braided down her back rather than in her precise updo. Oh, the gossip that would incure!

The doctor, though displeased with the interruption so late at night, was nevertheless used to it, and they both quickly returned to Marya’s house in his carriage. Ushering Marya out of her own bedroom, the doctor quickly went to work treating this poor girl. Having heard the story on the way here, he still couldn’t help but think it all much too dramatic. Still, the evidence was right here.

What seemed like hours later, the doctor emerged. Marya, having been pacing anxiously this entire time, immediately stopped. The doctor reassured her that the woman would be fine. She was asleep now, and he’d given her something for the pain. The best thing to do was to clean the blood from her body, warm her up, and let her rest. Then, with some hesitation, the doctor added that if Marya so wished, someone could be there by dawn to collect her.

But Marya felt somehow responsible for the other woman. Besides, the lord knew what would become of a vulnerable woman in this city. Politely declining his offer, Marya saw him to the door. As the latch clicked, Marya felt the adrenaline of the night sink away. She was exhausted. But, shaking that feeling off, she headed back to the bedroom. There was still much to do.

“Thank you,” the woman whispered, her voice rough and nearly inaudible. Marya, not expecting for her to be up, tensed briefly. But she shook the woman’s gratitude off. She didn’t need, nor want, it. Now that the medicine had started to kick in, the woman was able to sit up with only moderate pain.

“Come, let’s get you off the bed so I can get the blood off of you. Are you able to stand?” and for the second time that night, the woman nodded. Unsteadily, she gripped the bedside table tightly. Marya led the woman to the settee after draping a towel over it. She reached for the woman’s skirts, but hesitated. The woman nodded, lifting her hips as best she could. Marya laid the fabric aside. It would have to be burned along with the corset. And the stockings were beyond repair. All that was left were her underwear. At that, Marya couldn’t help but stare. They were unlike what women of 19th century Russia usually wore. Generally, the tops of a woman’s underwear were secured under her corset, but in this woman’s case, they scandalously stopped at her hips, and ended at mid-thigh just about the stocking tips. It made the tips of Marya’s ears burn red.

“It’s okay,” the woman murmured. “We’re a bit past false modesty.” And she was right, of course. Unwittingly, Marya’s eyes flickered up and over the rest of the woman’s exposed body. Kneeling at the feet with her fingertips hovering just over the last bit of clothing of an otherwise naked woman made for a rather suggestive picture. Marya silently cursed, as she felt the heat flood to her face. She hadn’t been made to blush in decades. Who did this woman think she was to elicit such a response?

But, clearing her throat, Marya pushed that aside. She shouldn’t- couldn’t go there. Those were feelings she had long since shoved down. After all, people gossiped enough without these forbidden thoughts in the picture.

Marya refocused on wiping every trace of blood from the woman’s small body. It didn’t take long, and after making sure to thoroughly scan for any stray stains, Marya went to her wardrobe. Her nightgowns would be far too long for the small woman, but what could they do about that?

“Thank you,” the woman said, her voice stronger now. Marya struggled to suppress the shiver that ran down her spine. The woman’s voice was deep, though not quite as deep as her own. Sultry, jazzy almost. It was… well that didn’t matter. Stepping behind the modesty screen she hadn’t needed to use in years, Marya tiredly donned her own nightgown once more. The one not stained with another woman’s blood. She could suppress her emotions in the morning. Right now, she was just so very tired, and there were still sheets to change.

But the woman seemed to sense her exhaustion, and had moved back to the bed. Wincing, she was so focused on trying not to cry out, that she didn’t notice Marya approach her. Gently, but firmly, Marya took the soiled linens from her, and efficiently stripped the bed and replaced the sheets.

“I hope I’m not putting you out,” the woman said. Leaning heavily on the bedpost, she looked ready to collapse for the third time that night. Marya shook her head, reassuring her that she would be just fine in the living area. But then they both remembered the harsh chill in the house, and the woman lightly, but decisively pulled Marya into the bed. It was certainly big enough for two, she reasoned, and really, she didn’t take up much room at all. And Marya was simply too tired to argue.

She woke the next morning, and in spite of herself, Marya felt a slight pang when she saw the woman hadn’t moved from where she had curled up on the edge of the bed. Well, she wasn’t lying when she said she didn’t take up any room. Marya sighed, but forced herself out of the warmth of her bed. There was breakfast to prepare after all.

Lost in her own head, Marya didn’t hear the woman pad in, barefooted. She was too used to living alone, and the presence of someone else caused her to jump.

“I’m sorry,” she said, backing up slightly, breathing labored from the strain of the walk. “I’m afraid I didn’t introduce myself. My name is Elena. Elena Vasilevna Kuragina. But please, call me Hélène.”

“Marya Dmitryevna Akhrsimova. I…did you have any preferences for breakfast?” Marya turned back to the stove, pulling herself together as best she could. Marya was suddenly struck with just how lovely she truly looked in Marya’s nightgown. Hélène gingerly sat at the table, shaking her head. Really, she was open to anything Marya had to offer.

Marya lasted most of the day before she gave in and asked the question. Hélène sighed heavily, and Marya nearly retracted the question completely.

“I suppose you have a right to know,” Hélène mused. “It’s the least I could do.” But Marya shook her head. Hélène didn’t have to tell Marya anything she didn’t want. Really, it was none of her business. But Hélène wanted to.

She had been an unmarried woman in St. Petersburg, she explained, and had caught the eye of an older gentleman. A queen of society, these attentions were not uncommon. And Hélène was not interested in marriage to someone like him. Someone cruel, and miserly, and not at all someone who could have pleased her late father. But he’d insisted, and when her refusals became increasingly hostile, he’d turned to thinly veiled threats.

Having no family left, Hélène had packed up her things and headed to Moscow. She had only been in the area for a few short weeks when she made the mistake of taking a shortcut home through an alleyway. Her assailant had been a common thief, and he’d seemed more terrified than anyone else that night. The thief never expected Hélène to fight back. But, even for all her ferocity, he had been taller and stronger, and in the end, he’d gotten the best of her. She supposed he must have felt guilty because the next thing she knew, she’d been dumped on a doorstep.

“I must thank you with all my heart for what you have done for me,” Hélène finished. “I promise I will be out of your hair as soon as you wish.” Marya felt a sudden panic at the thought of this woman leaving.

“No!” she said, a bit too sharply. “I mean… I – no. No, it’s no trouble, really. You say you are alone in Moscow. Really, you can’t possibly hope to move about freely with your injuries. I insist you say here until you are well. Please.”

Hélène smiled, ducking her head. While she had no desire to put this woman out any more than she already had, she couldn’t deny the relief she felt at being invited to stay. Relief at being genuinely cared about. It wasn’t a feeling she’d been accustomed to.

After that, they settled into a routine. Neither woman was used to cohabitation but to their surprise they adjusted quickly enough. Marya was most shocked, however, with how Hélène seemed to bring out a side of her she thought long since gone. Marya prided herself on being biting, and stern. Not tender. Not someone who blushed like a schoolgirl. And certainly not… not… whatever this was. Honestly, this woman had the power to leave Marya Dmitryevna speechless at times, much to her chagrin.

Marya couldn’t. She just couldn’t. It would ruin her for good. And she’d spent years clawing her way back into a semi-respectable place in society. Even if that place was tenuous at best. This, feeling… this deficiency. This would ruin her, and Hélène alike. Marya couldn’t. She just couldn’t. And so, she did what she had done with many of her emotions over the years. She shunted them aside. But it was easier said than done. Because she had never been so close to another person before, and she hadn’t realized how contact starved she’d been.

Marya’s favorite part of the day was when they were preparing for bed. Elena would first run a comb through her own long, dark hair. Cursing, and impatiently tugging apart at her tight and stubborn curls all the while. Then, she turned on Marya, who usually spent that time laughing at her expression.

The next half an hour was then usually spent trying to tame Marya’s soft, dark red, curls. Having her hair played with was such a soothing feeling. It was then that her walls were nearly nonexistent. And Hélène seemed to adore playing with Marya’s hair. After all, she said, it was just so beautiful and soft. Even if it did puff up comically when Hélène tried to brush it out once. They’d both known it would happen, but seeing it sent Hélène into a fit of giggles, and brought out Marya’s persisting blush.

They took their afternoon tea, laced with rum on a good day, vodka on particularly trying ones. They curled up late at night on the sofa, taking turns reading aloud anything they pleased. Moliere, Tolstoy. It didn’t matter, really. Marya just loved listening to Hélène speak.

The weeks went on, and soon they couldn’t continue pretending Hélène was staying simply because of her injuries. The knife slash was on its way to simply becoming a faint scar, and most of the bruises were completely faded. Hélène had almost no trouble moving about freely. Something that became the bane of Marya’s existence.

When still hurting, Hélène moved gingerly, stiffly. But regaining full ownership of her body completely transformed her actions into something _sensual_. The beautiful woman draped herself languidly over every surface she deigned to sit on, and swayed her hips in ways that haunted Marya’s every waking moment. Back in corsets, Hélène’s generous bust captured Marya’s attentions more than she though proper, but still she did not stop stealing little glances. She could not even if she tried.

“I have a proposition for you,” Marya said, one day. “I must admit I have greatly enjoyed our time living together. And I have grown rather accustomed to… to seeing you. And living in Moscow, well, it’s rather expensive, yes? Well, would you perhaps wish to move in, permanently? Of course, if you’d prefer the solitude of your own home, I would completely understand. And if you were to move in, we’d bring in another bed, of course.” Marya was rambling. Something she never did. Ever.

Hélène laughed quietly. It was… endearing, to say the least. Gently hushing Marya, she immediately agreed. Because she had grown fond of Marya as well. And she would have been loath to leave her.

But as pleasing as their arrangement was to them, it gave the people of Moscow more than enough to gossip about regarding the two spinster women. After all, rarely was one seen without the other. At soirees, they would accompany each other. And everyone wanted a change to speak to the Moscow woman who had tamed the great and terrible dragon lady. But the rumors persisted, as they often did.

They were two women, unmarried, and uninterested in wedding anyone, no matter how wealthy or attractive. Both outspoken, and not quite what society expected. And now they were living together. Bringing in the second bed into Marya’s – now their – bedroom was definitely not taking fuel from the fire. Hélène certainly didn’t seem to care what the others thought. And neither did Marya. She didn’t. Truly. But the whispers grew louder, until neither woman could ignore them any longer.

Elena was the first to breech the subject. She took Marya aside one lazy Sunday morning just after a riveting church service. Marya knew what Hélène wanted to discuss. And it terrified her. She had been so, so okay. And then the first woman – albeit an intelligent and beautiful woman –  to walk past had broken her resolve so violently.

“Marya, is…” Hélène hesitated. “There are rumors, but I- I truly don’t mind. It’s just that, well I want to make sure you are okay.” Marya was on the verge of denying everything. Of treating it all as a silly little joke that the Russian aristocracy cooked up. But she couldn’t. And with an anguished sob, she sank onto the bed. Alarmed, Hélène rushed to the other woman’s side. “Marusya, darling.”

“Oh, please don’t,” Marya said, almost begging. “Please. I know it’s wrong. I know it’s not natural. But I can’t! I just can’t. I tried, oh god I tried for years to shove it down, but I can’t anymore. I’m- I- oh it’s true. What those horrid people say is true!” And once more, was overcome with renewed sobs. She drew in gasping breaths, pleading with Hélène not to hate her.

“Masha, no I could never hate you,” Hélène soothed, petting Marya’s hair. This did nothing but bring the poor woman to more hysterics. Shamed at displaying such unbecoming emotions to another person, Marya could hardly breathe.

“You should. You should despise me. Oh, I’ve ruined everything. The way I feel about you, oh it’s just so…oh, Hélène! I don’t understand, honestly. I don’t. And they’ve found out. I don’t- I’ve spent years not, not being _this_.” Marya, seized with a sudden urgency to be away from Elena Kuragina, but unwilling to leave her presence, began to pace the room. “And now that I’ve acknowledged it I can’t go back! I can’t pretend I don’t- that I don’t love… but that doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. Oh, Hélène ever since I was a child I felt that there must be something wrong with me. And then when I got older, that feeling never went away. I’ve always hated the thought of men touching or even looking at me. My late-husband, he never raised his voice or his fists to me and still I- I couldn’t bring myself to care when he died. I was _glad_ , god help me, but it’s true. All I could think about was that I was finally free, and I’d never have to- to spread my legs for a man again. I mean, I’ve always admired other women, but I swear I never thought- I never allowed myself to think..”

“Marya, please,” Hélène said, trying to sooth her. “Darling, you’ll make yourself sick. Please sit down.” Her mind whirred faster and faster, trying desperately to process what her best friend was trying to say to her.

Marya retreated even further away, wringing her hands. She had ruined them both, she said. “I never thought those pretentious bastards could be right, but, Hélène, it’s true. I- I confess to everything. I- Hélène, I love you.” And though Marya sunk to the carpet with her admission, she felt lighter than she had in years. Laughing hollowly, she turned her pleading gaze on Hélène. “Please, believe me, Elena. I never meant to have these feelings. I know it’s not… I know a woman cannot love another in this way. But I can’t help but loving you. From the moment you appeared at my doorstep, I felt… I knew! I tried to deny it, but I just couldn’t. But I swear to you that I never meant for anyone to know. I never wanted for this to happen.”

“Marya, love,” Hélène sunk down next to the distraught woman. “Please, look at me. Darling, if you are guilty of anything, then I must be guilty of the same thing. And I cannot believe we should be called sinners. If what I feel for you is a sin, I want no part of that religion. But surely God must have better things to do than worry about two women in love. And Marya Dmitryevna Akhrosimova, I love you. Not only as a friend, but as a lover. You are magnificent, and beautiful, and I cannot help but loving you as well. Are you to believe we are both sinners? Or will you accept we… that we love each other?”

And Marya stared back into the face of the woman she loved. Gazing back at her was not disgust, or judgement. Only love. Love that, for Marya, she never thought possible. And without another thought, she gently leaned in.

Marya, though she would never have admitted to it, trembled in both anticipation and fear. But as their lips met, any doubts or guilt she harbored melted away in an instant. Unable to resist, she tangled her fingers in Hélène’s long tresses. Hélène sighed, settling her hands on the taller woman’s hips. The kiss deepened, and Marya drew the other woman closer until their bodies were flush against each other. Marya was certain the other woman would be able to feel her racing heart, as she herself could feel Hélène’s. This was not Marya’s first kiss, but it was the first that mattered. She had never kissed another woman, and really that was all she ever wanted.

Eventually, they broke apart, panting heavily. Marya saw Hélène’s eyes darkened with desire, and shivered with anticipation. Hélène glanced back at the bed, then turned her questioning gaze back to Marya. The woman nodded, without hesitation. She wanted Hélène. All of Hélène, for as long as she was willing to offer.

They carefully made their way to the bed. There was no rush. They had all the time in the world. Still standing near the bed, Hélène stood on her toes to release Marya’s curls from the elaborate style Marya was so fond of. With their hair down, both women looked softer, and more youthful, despite the streaks of grey Marya possessed.

Slowly, languidly even, the two women began undressing each other. Skirts and blouses were carefully set aside to reveal tightly laced corsets, and delicate underthings. Marya, beginning to succumb to impatience, tugged on the stays forcefully. Hélène laughed, and together they made short work of the rest of their clothing until they were both gloriously bare. Hélène allowed herself a moment to admire her lover’s form, before gently nudging her onto the bed.

Marya settled back on the mountain of pillows, allowing the other woman to take her all in. She shivered, and flushed. But not from embarrassment. No, Marya did not feel exposed and vulnerable right now. She felt desirable. Something she hadn’t felt in decades.

Marya keened, as Hélène straddled her thigh, and kissed her once more. The first had been tender, and gentle. Now, it was forceful and demanding. Sensing the older woman tremble, Hélène reminded her that they could stop at any time. Nothing would happen that Marya didn’t want to happen. But Marya had never felt safer. And as she wrapped one long leg around Hélène’s dusky hips, she knew she would never want to stop.

Hélène laughed, trailing soft kisses, and licks down Marya’s jawbone, her neck, her collarbone. There would be marks dotting Marya’s pale skin the next morning, but neither woman could bring themselves to care right now. Now, it was as though they were the only two in the world. And Hélène went still lower.

She trailed her hot tongue across the tops of Marya’s small breasts. Smaller still, with Marya on her back. Rolling a hardened nipple between her fingertips, Hélène instinctively moved to cover it with her mouth. Marya gasped, arching her back and thrusting her breasts into the other woman. Yes, just like that. Her eyes slammed shut with the intensity of it all, but she forced them open. She wanted to see. Wanted to watch exactly what Hélène would do to her painfully aroused body.

As Hélène gently nipped and sucked on Marya’s aching nipples, she slowly trailed one hand down her smooth torso, over the swell of her buttock, before coming to rest at the back of her thigh. Though Marya didn’t know it was possible, she pulled them closer still until Marya’s aching center was pressed directly against warm flesh. The redhead gasped at the sudden contact, wanting more. Needing more.

And Hélène was all too happy to oblige. She gave Marya’s left nipple one last nip, drawing a guttural moan from the desperate woman, before slowly sliding down to settle between her legs, leaving soft kisses in her wake. With a sharp tug, she brought Marya’s womanhood mere millimeters from her lips. Marya, unsure what Hélène was planning, yet knowing exactly what would happen, propped herself up on her forearms. Hélène gazed up at her lover, asking the question with her desire-filled eyes.

“Please,” Marya breathed, trembling and feeling so very open. Her legs were spread, one hooked over the side of the bed, and the other resting over Hélène’s shoulder. Nothing was hidden. Hélène, recognizing the gravity of the situation and the significance, silently sent her thanks to whatever being who was responsible for bringing her to this moment.

Then, without warning, Hélène’s tongue darted out to quickly lap at Marya’s lips. Marya gasped, throwing her head back. But Hélène, despite taking charge of the situation, had never done this before. But she’d taken her own pleasure in the past, despite the stigma of such actions. She couldn’t imagine it would be much different for Marya. And so, taking a calming breath, she began gently sucking and licking at Marya’s outer lips. She avoided the spot she was certain would drive the desperate woman crazy, however, wanting to savor this moment for as long as possible.

But Marya wasn’t quite so patient. She rolled her hips, soft pleads for more falling from her lips. She wasn’t quite sure what she begged for, but she knew she needed _more_. And really, who was Hélène to argue? Knowing Marya would not expect it, Hélène took Marya’s swollen bundle of nerves in her mouth, and Marya damn near screamed. It was both simultaneously too much and not enough. It was then that Hélène began to well and truly fuck her. And as clumsy as Hélène believed she must have been, Marya felt she must have died and gone to heaven, because nothing on Earth could have possibly been so wonderfully pleasurable. That was, until, under the small woman’s unrelenting and skillful ministrations, Marya came undone for the first time in her life. That, she believed, was truly what heaven was.

She screamed as wave after wave of pleasure rolled through her body. And still, Hélène did not let up her glorious assault. Marya climaxed, once, twice, three times. Finally, overwhelmed with pleasure and ecstasy she had never felt before, Marya weakly nudged Hélène away. Collapsing limply against the mattress, Marya wondered if it was possible she would never move again. Slowly, Hélène extracted herself from Marya’s legs, and gently laid next to her.

“Are you okay, love?” She asked, softly moving to brush Marya’s curls from her face. Laughing, Marya rolled onto her side to face her lover. She took in Hélène’s disarrayed appearance, flushing once more when she saw that most of her lips and jaw was covered with Marya’s arousal.

Exhausted and overwhelmed as Hélène knew they both were, Hélène insisted they go to sleep. After all, she said, she wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon. Marya curled protectively around the smaller woman, her fingers tracing the faint scar that brought them together. This would not be the easy path, but it was the only path.

After that fateful night, there was a sense of relief among the two women. No longer were either of them terrified of so-called unnatural feelings. How could something so wonderful and loving be wrong? For the first time, Marya felt truly free.

And soon the whispers and gossip tapered off. In a place such as Moscow there was always something new to speculate on. But perhaps, in hindsight, this lack of scrutiny focused on them was not quite so fortunate. Because as the weeks and months passed, the two women got careless.

It was a mild Russian day. Marya and Hélène, having gone alone to one of Anna Pavlovna’s soirees, came back early. She couldn’t stand it, Hélène said. Being alone at a dance and being unable to dance with the woman she loved openly. Seized by jealous, Marya too could do nothing by offer scathing critiques regarding the many men who swooned before Elena Kuragina.

Begging illness, Marya had stolen back with Hélène in tow, determined to sweep the beautiful woman off her feet. But it was Hélène, once more, who took the lead.

Turning on the music, she drew a feebly protesting dragon lady up and onto her feet. Marya’s exasperated sighs about being far too exhausted for such a dance fell on deaf ears, however, and soon after they were twirling around the room, laughing gleefully.

Hélène was letting her lead, Marya observed. Hélène merely brushed it off. Marya was much taller, it was only fair. Sweeping the smaller woman into a low dip, Marya couldn’t resist drawing her into a searing kiss. Laughing, Hélène tossed aside the clip that held Marya’s curls up. Marya grinned, already undoing the buttons that held Hélène’s dress together. They’d gotten much, much better in the past few months. Nights of careful experimentation, and passionate love making had done them both wonders.

Not to be outdone, Hélène speedily peeled off Marya’s elaborate ball dress. As beautiful as Marya looked in it, the smaller woman thought she looked far better out of it. Hélène pressed Marya against the wall, sucking at a spot on the base of her neck that never failed to make the redhead melt.

She had just unclasped Marya’s very, very alluring corset, when Marya stiffened. Then, Hélène heard it. The yelp, and subsequent crash just outside the window. The very open, window. Outside, two figures frantically raced back to town, tripping over gangly limbs. And Marya could only stare at her lover in horror.

Filled with dread, they both redressed in completely silence. They had been foolish. Reckless, even. And now they were ruined. And in the most humiliating fashion. God, they had been caught in flagrante delicto by adolescents.

Marya gasped, the true gravity of what had just happened, hitting her at once. Why, just recently, the Tsar had outlawed this behavior. And while, generally, the courts only seemed concerned with men, they were still ruined in the eyes of society. And God, if they were convicted they would be stripped of everything they had and sent off to Siberia.

Hélène, terrified, grasped Marya’s hands. They could, she mused, attempt to convince the town that the boys had been lying. That they had merely been taking their tea when the boys had come upon them, and in revenge for the two women’s harsh reprimands, the boys had lied. Or perhaps, Hélène hadn’t even been home at the time. Perhaps, Hélène could have been in town after the party. But even as she said them, Hélène knew the pitiful excuses would unravel in seconds. All it would take was an inquiry about town, or a question of what color corset Marya had been wearing for it to all collapse around them. But there was another option, Marya decided. And they would have to hurry.

“What if we run?” she asked. “What if we…just leave? Go somewhere else. Somewhere where they’ll never find us, and we can just live in peace.” Hélène turned her frightened eyes to her lover. Marya had spent her entire life in Moscow. Could she leave that all behind? But it was not even a question for Marya. She refused to live here any longer. Not if she couldn’t love this woman.

The angry mob came upon the Akhrosimova household, boys in tow. But when they beat down the door, the house was dark, and cold. Not a trace of the two women remained. The mob roared for justice, and they decreed that if ever either woman set foot in Moscow again, they would be found guilty. Running, an admission of guilt in and of itself, was inexcusable.

But it did not matter. Marya Dmitryevna Akhrosimova, and Elena Vasilevna Kuragina ran. Far, far away. They were never caught, and they never stopped loving each other. And really, did anything else truly matter?


End file.
